


Spoiler Alert

by DancingClouds



Category: Arrival (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:12:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingClouds/pseuds/DancingClouds
Summary: An unintended side-effect, Phil realizes, is that he will never get to enjoy a movie with a good twist ending.





	Spoiler Alert

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot crossover between the film “Arrival” and the Avengers. This story alternates points of view between Phil (bold) and Clint (regular). 
> 
> Warnings: probably as confusing to read as it was to write

Clint braced his knee against the grate. It groaned under his weight, then gave a moment later, dropping him to Coulson’s office floor. The thinned carpeting was as unforgiving as always, but Clint rolled with it and back onto his feet.

“Hiding away in here again?” He strolled towards Coulson’s desk, passed the ‘America the Beautiful’ calendar bursting with hand-written appointments and layers upon layers of post-its, stopping just short of the edge. It dug into his stomach anyway, sharp even through the Kevlar-like material of his uniform, when he leaned forward. “Let’s eat. They’ve got spaghetti in the cafeteria, and you know there won’t be leftovers today.”

The second Tuesday of the month was the day all the Avengers held a roundtable at SHIELD HQ, and Clint had long figured out the hazards of waiting to eat after Captain ‘I have a fast metabolism’ had his way. He could put up with it at the tower, but a man had to have his safe places.

Coulson remained bent over his paperwork. His hand paused in filling it out—a DL54, mission report—then continued. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Clint paused. He knew for a fact that Coulson had just got back from his two-week long mission doing a meet-and-greet with a new batch of aliens, and they always stuffed themselves sick after milk-runs like that. It was tradition, and Coulson never messed with tradition.

“You sure? We can eat with Rogers, if you want.”

Coulson always jumped at opportunities to have in-depth conversations with Rogers about whatever tiny detail he was obsessing over that given week (last week: choice of 32-frame speed for the propaganda film #12), but his hand didn’t even pause. “I’m sure.”

“Uh…” He was thrown off balance a little, but then rolled with it. “Alright. Next mission, then.”

Coulson barely nodded, not even looking at him. Clint waited for a moment more, unsure if he should wheedle him a little more.

After a few more moments of silence, he left.

* * *

 

 

**Coulson eats his lunch at his desk everyday.**

**Sometimes, he buys the #2 meal from Burger King. Unwraps it at his desk, removes the pickles he always forgets to ask the teenaged employee to remove. Eats exactly half of it, then the fries, then finishes the burger.**

**Sometimes, he goes to the cafeteria. Someone there will invite him to join them, like clockwork, and he will decline. If it’s the second Tuesday of the month, that person is Steve Rogers. His answer is the same.**

**His office is quiet; the rustle of paper and his own chewing are the only sounds that can break through the leadlined windows.**

**When Coulson finishes his work, he returns to his empty apartment. He eats dinner alone, typically a frozen microwave meal. Watches reality TV. If it’s a Thursday, he watches NannyCam.**

**Sometimes, when the quiet presses too hard into his ears, when he can’t stop looking at the empty spot on the couch next to him where Clint used to sit, he finds himself reorganizing his coffeetable, reordering his DVDs, tidying up out of habit. Filling the apartment with empty noise.**

**He goes to bed at 11PM every night. He usually sleeps through the night. He doesn’t dream; or at least, he doesn’t think so.**

**Sometimes, when he closes his eyes at night, he finds himself looking into the darkness behind his eyelids. It will feel like he does this for hours on end, yet when he opens his eyes only a few minutes have passed on his alarm clock.**

* * *

 

 

“Do you think Coulson’s been acting weird lately?” Clint asked.

There was a short pause, then: “How d’you mean?” from Wilson.

“I dunno,” Clint looked down at his sandwich, trying to figure out how to describe it. “He didn’t want to get lunch with us.”

“He hasn’t come down to eat with us for three months now,” Banner chimed in. He’d gotten the vegetarian option, some kind of gross-looking pickle/salad monstrosity. He was dissecting it with his fork. “Nothing new.”

“Yeah, but that’s the problem—Coulson used to always come along on Tuesdays. What’s his deal?” Clint addressed this to the general group, but he looked towards Natasha who arched his eyebrows at him.

“Maybe he’s avoiding someone.” She flicked that out, then returned to her own lunch as if she didn’t care about the response from the audience (liar).

“Who would he be avoiding?” Clint demanded, own lunch forgotten. “It’s not fucking high school. If Coulson had a problem with someone he’d deal with it, not hide in his office.”

“If he’s not hiding, then what is he doing?”

“I dunno,” Clint replied, ignoring the contemplative way Banner looked at him, head cocked. That was a thought, though; what was Coulson up to? He liked bursting in on the guy, enjoyed learning new little details, little quirks about Coulson. Loved the way he could always surprise Clint, even twelve years after they’d first met.

Why he enjoyed that so much, Clint very carefully avoiding thinking about.

 

* * *

 

**Phil chew his fingers sometimes. Not when he’s stressed or anxious. It’s a habit. When he’s thinking about the Votege charge the Captain led in issue #121 of volume 5, and whether that was before or after they’d cleared out the Hydra base in Stormstruung, and maybe it wasn’t r _eally_ possible to go from Germany to France in two days in WWII-era cars that were drawn like Jeeps but that didn’t really matter, even though his dad always said the devil’s in the details—his hands inevitably wandered to his mouth. **

**Sometimes the ink from the thin black-and-white comics gets onto his fingers, then inevitably to his mouth, and his mother smiles because he’s a dreamer like her and oh god--**

 

* * *

 

 

Clint spent all week searching for Coulson after Nat planted that thought in his head—that Coulson might be avoiding him. Training rooms, the Tower, Fury’s office—all searched thoroughly, in a rotating schedule to ensure Coulson wasn’t sneaking by like a ship in the night.

Unsuccessful, of course—the guy had trained Clint in how to stalk a target, so if he really was avoiding Clint then he’d have to start thinking outside the box. Naturally, of course, it was at a moment Clint was least prepared that he stumbled across his supervisor.

“Good morning, Agent Barton,” Coulson muttered as he slipped past the conference table on the way to the coffee machine. He had to lean past Clint to get the Styrofoam cups; Clint noticed the way he very carefully didn’t touch him. Not that Coulson was a touchy-feely guy, but Clint was used to sound thumps on his back after a good mission, the warmth of his grip on Clint’s shoulder; once, his fingertips on Clint’s cheekbone while turning his face to check the placement of a hidden camera.

_Maybe he’s avoiding someone_.

“Good morning,” Clint replied. He tracked the agent’s every move like a target as he added creamer and sugar. Like clockwork, two sugars, then the creamer afterward, as if the order mattered. “Any new missions?”

“No.” Clint frowned—frankly, Coulson was a great agent, and he was usually spearheading three at a time. Maybe two, if it was him and Nat involved (they always had the more difficult missions). It had been months since the last mission he remembered Coulson being on (something about aliens). Why was Coulson getting so much downtime?

“Is there—” Is there something wrong? But suddenly, with the way Coulson was avoiding him, the way he wasn’t even looking Clint in the eye at that moment, that question was a little too personal.  Like Clint was overstepping himself.

Only a few months ago he’d been teasing Coulson about his baldspot and his inevitable future with Fury’s haircut.

“I’ll see you later, Barton,” Coulson said into his coffee cup as he made his way out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

**Phil tries. When he fails, he tries again. And again. And again.**

**There is no change he makes that is not undone, somehow. He wakes up an hour early; a pile-up on 41 delays him by an hour. He buys his breakfast from the Starbucks; he accidentally drops it in the parking lot and eats a bagel instead.**

**Undone is not the right word. There’s nothing malicious in it, there isn’t a supernatural force working against him (no matter how much it may seem that way). It’s more that what he’s trying to change has already happened, is what _must_ happen, and maybe subterfuge is pointless because the only one he’s trying to fool is himself. **

 

* * *

 

 

“Uh…Coulson?” Clint asked tentatively. He tried to speak softly, especially after Nat had compared him once to a braying donkey, but Coulson still jerked awake, almost spilling his coffee.

“Oh, I—Clint?” Coulson stared at him, then around the conference room. Back at him, then flitting to the wall behind him. “What is it?”

Clint kept his gaze trained on Coulson, trying to will eye contact. “The meeting’s over?” Hated the way it sounded so hesitant, but it really wasn’t like Coulson to fall asleep in a meeting, especially one involving Avengers business. Stark had been all for leaving him there, that or tie his shoelaces together, while Rogers had wanted to let him rest (something about a difficult mission). But Clint had imagined Coulson waking up alone in a dark conference room, embarrassed, like the way all the adults used to smile understandingly when Clint mixed up his letters, and…he’d waited. It wasn’t like he’d had anything better to do.

“Oh…” He rubbed a hand over his face, stretching at his frown lines. The sleeve of his suit jacket pulled up, and Clint’s attention was drawn to the exposed wrist. It seemed skinnier than before, the bones more obvious—okay, maybe that was a little stalkerish, but Clint was a sniper for fuck’s sake. He was all about the detail.

“Are you…feeling alright?”

His hand dropped. “I’m fine.” Coulson pushed his chair back but didn’t stand up right away. Clint tracked over his whole body, looking for signs of injury—favoring a knee, gripping with the non-dominant hand—but nothing. He just seemed…tired. The kind of whole-body exhaustion Clint always got after a long mission, so…maybe Rogers was right?

But Coulson was still on standby. Three months since his last mission, at least the last one Clint had known about.

“You wanna grab dinner, then?” Coulson seemed startled at that and glanced quickly out the window, apparently just now noticing that the noon sun he’d been squinting through earlier had dulled to a shadowed burgundy. “It’s almost six.”

“Six?” Coulson asked. “Already?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess.” Clint shrugged. Coulson hadn’t answered him.

Coulson barked out a harsh laugh. “I guess it does.” He slowly got to his feet and started brushing his papers together into a pile.

“So…dinner?” Clint tried again. He tried not to feel nervous. That would be stupid; he and Coulson had grabbed dinner lots of times. Not any time recently, but the last time after their mission in Berlin they’d gotten bratwurst and fries, and Coulson had teased him that there were intestines in it, and they’d ended up dissecting one of the sausages and tried to identify what the brown bits might be, and Coulson’s face had been so close to Clint’s that he could see his grey in his eyebrows and the gold flecks in the green of his eyes, and it would have been so easy, _so fucking easy_ , to just lean in and—

His stomach was twisting. _Don’t be nervous._

Coulson paused for a long moment. Then: “What day is it?”

“Uh…” He hadn’t expected that. Clint glanced at his watch. “Friday? The 24th.”

Coulson’s hands were still on the papers. He was looking down at them, but Clint didn’t think he was reading them. “I already have plans for tonight.”

Oh. “Next time, then,” he tried. Of course Coulson would have had plans. He was a busy guy, not like Clint who always seemed to have endless free time.

Unexpectedly, Coulson turned his head and looked at Clint. It pinned him down, that look—maybe because it was the first time Coulson had looked directly at him in months, maybe because the dimming light sharpened all of his features, maybe because there was something almost desperate in the way Coulson looked at him.

“Next time.” He didn’t smile, even when Clint nervously chuckled, unsure of what to say.

Even after Coulson left, Clint remained standing in place, too indecisive to stay or go. He had no idea what Coulson had meant by that. If that had been anyone else, Clint would have taken it for what it probably was: a brush-off, meant to turn him down without burning the bridge. But it was impossible to think that anyone could look at Clint like that but feel nothing at all. 

 

* * *

 

 

**He likes the way Clint walks. All loose-limbed, arms swinging at his sides, long legs flung out in a casual stroll, head pivoting around as he looks from face to face as he talks, including everyone in the ‘convo’. Then he’ll be on a mission and everything tightens up, drawing into a tightly-controlled machine that moves from nest to ground and back in a sequence that plays to an unknown tune in his head.**

**He likes the way Clint talks, too. The incessant chatter over the coms annoys every handler except Phil, drives Sitwell almost to tears three weeks ago, two days ago, five months from the now Phil is in. Clint rates the looks of Hydra goons on a scale ranging from ‘butter-face’ to ‘sponge-worthy’, reminds Phil about the spaghetti sauce stain on his tie, creates dirty limericks that he _knows_ will make Phil laugh. That seems to be Clint’s goal most of the time, getting everyone laughing. **

**Maybe it’s because of the classic trope, the funny guy fearing what happens when the laughter stops. But sometimes Phil thinks that Clint is specifically trying to make _Phil_ laugh, that he wants to make Phil happy, that he cares more about Phil than he should. **

**No. Phil _knows_. He has all of his questions answered, his worries realized, his dreams come true. He knows how the story ends. **

 

* * *

 

 

On the advice of Natasha, Sam Wilson, Wanda, and Stark (of all people), Clint waited two weeks before approaching Coulson.

He said ‘next time’, after all. Clint had digested all the advice everyone had given him, weighed out the possible outcomes, and finally decided to go for it. It was probably going to end badly, but Clint just knew that if he didn’t take this chance, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

He waited until a Friday afternoon, after the day staff who knew Clint best were gone. That would help to minimize the embarrassment to come with the inevitable rejection. He even locked Coulson’s door behind him (as if a lock would stop a determined SHIELD agent). Coulson hadn’t protested—hadn’t even seemed surprised, actually, to have Clint barge into his office when he had no business even being at HQ that week.

“Do you want to go out with me?” Clint asked.

And there—it was out there. No more pussyfooting around, no using the cover of being friends to hide his feelings, no excuses. Maybe Coulson had been pulling away the past few months to let Clint down easy, who knew, but he had to be sure.

Coulson drew in a deep breath. He said nothing.

“And by that, I mean a date. As in, go out on a date with me. Not just as friends.” He was starting to ramble, nerves making the words tumble out of his mouth, tripping over one another as he tried to fill the silence. There was a rising lump in his chest, something inside there tugging at this fingers and toes to make them curl up. “I mean, if you want.”

Long minutes passed. He pretended his shoes were nailed to the floor, to keep himself from bolting. Goddammnit—he’d gotten it wrong, Coulson wasn’t interested, was probably contemplating the best way to shoot him down—

“I do.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Huh?”

Coulson’s words were soft but certain. “I do want to. To go out with you.”

“You…” The world was tipping over end. “You do?” He asked, needing to hear it one more time (and one more, and more, forever and ever).

“Yes.”

Everything, the twisted tightness in his chest, the sinking dread in his stomach, it all released like a balloon farting its way around a room. He could have laughed as giddiness swept through him, making the world seem a little brighter and friendlier. Coulson said _yes._

“That’s…I mean, great!” Looking back, Clint would think he’d been a little too enthusiastic, but in the moment there was nothing holding him back. “Tonight, if you don’t have plans?”

Coulson’s gaze slid to his calendar on the wall besides him. It was completely blank. “Tonight, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Phil likes Steve Rogers.**

**He doesn’t have any romantic feelings for him, despite the betting pool that arises right around the defrosting that he’s sure Sitwell is behind. Respect, admiration, all platonic words that belie the depth to which he experiences these feelings. He believes that Captain Rogers is a good man, and he delights in the opportunity to work with him on the Avengers Initiative. Doing so allows him to get to know the Captain as a human being, with strengths and limitations.**

**Phil hates Steve Rogers. Because a super human shouldn’t _have_ limitations, because the real Steve Rogers isn’t even close in comparison to his comic book version. Because Rogers should be faster, should do _something_ , and when Phil discusses the Initiative with him and lays out the potential roster, he can’t help but blame him for what will happen next. **

**But that Steve Rogers isn’t the one that Phil’s speaking to, and it’s so, so hard to keep things straight.**

* * *

 

Spoiler: the date didn’t go well.

It started out great—fantastic, best fucking date he’s ever been on. On Rogers’ advice, he’d brought flowers (and on Nat’s, switched from roses to sunflowers), he’d gotten a custom-made suit from Stark (‘bespoke’, Barton, you plebe), he’d taken the concrete walkway to Coulson’s front door instead of cutting across the lawn. And then there’d been Coulson standing in the open doorway right as Clint had walked up, as if he’d been waiting there for Clint (and wasn’t that a thought, that Coulson was just as eager as Clint was). Quickly deposited the bouquet into a waiting glass vase (and thank fuck he’d brought the flowers, otherwise the vase would have been sadly empty), then placed a warm hand on Clint’s back as they walked together back to the car.

It all went downhill from there.

Okay, so the actual date part went according to plan. The restaurant had been everything Stark had promised: classy shit that Coulson would appreciate, live musicians, a wine list, menus with the soft felt covers that caught on his callused hands. And the conversation had been easy, with Coulson laughing at all the right times. But something had been…off.

Clint wasn’t sure. The hand on Clint’s back. The quick grin at Clint’s go-to first-date joke. The way his hand kept almost touching Clint’s, but not quite. All of it had been right, what Clint would have hoped for, but _not_.

It was when they were walking back into Coulson’s place that Clint realized what had been wrong. It was the timing. Everything Coulson did was always a beat off. Laughing a split second before the punchline. Standing up a second after Clint did. Reaching for—okay, maybe Clint was being paranoid. But he was a sniper, and he was trained to look for unnatural stuff like that. All the little tells to know when someone was being genuine, and when someone was just going through the motions. And Coulson had definitely been the latter.

“So this was great,” Clint tried, leaning in the doorway while Coulson slipped his shoes off. He kept his back to Clint. Clint kept his gaze on Coulson, even thought he’d never seen the inside of his place before and was curious.

“It was.” Coulson kept moving, into the kitchen. “Do you want some coff—” he paused, then shook his head.

Okay, that hurt. But as much as Clint wanted to push, to stand in Coulson’s home for a little longer and plant his flag, he also knew when he wasn’t welcome.

“Nah, I’m good. Got an early start tomorrow.” With that, Clint slowly backed onto the walkway. Tried to ignore the tight squeezing in his chest as he put space between them.

“Next time.” And then Coulson was looking at him, finally. He said it the same way he’d said it last time, in the conference room, absolutely full of confidence.

Clint was floored. “Wait, you want to do this again?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Did not compute. If Clint’s brain was a computer, he’d be a blue screen.

“But I thought…” Thought Coulson hadn’t enjoyed himself. That this was some kind of pity date. But Clint couldn’t finish that sentence with the way Coulson was looking at him now.

“I had fun, Clint.” And it really did seem like Coulson was telling the truth. But again, the words seemed off, almost rehearsed, sending off all kinds of alarms in his head.

“Didn’t seem like it,” he blurted out.

Coulson’s expression froze. Clint immediately back-tracked.

“I just mean, you seemed tired?” God, his face looked like it was about to crumple. How had Clint gotten this so wrong? “I mean, not that you’re tired of me or anything, you just seemed—”

“I could never get tired of you,” Coulson whispered. He was gripping his door handle, hard enough to make his knuckles go white. “I am trying very hard.” It felt like he should have been looking away, but instead he was staring hard at Clint, keeping him pinned in place. “But I need to make sure that things go the way they’re _supposed to_.”

“What does that mean?” There was an undertone of fear, now, because what the fuck had Coulson meant by that?

But then Coulson’s face had gone pale, and he shut the door without answering.

 

* * *

 

 

**Phil watches as Clint’s body arches through the air, toes pointed at the ground and arms drawing backward, pulling the bowstring back. He knows that there’s a grappling arrow loaded in place, ready to plant itself into the crumbling concrete of the office building fifty meters south of Clint’s position. He knows that Clint has done this a thousand times before, but he has also watched this moment a thousand times by now, and it never ends the way he wants it to.**

**This is the part that Phil hates.**

 

* * *

 

 

Coulson walked past their table without looking any of them in the eye.

“That bad, huh?” Wilson slung an arm over Clint’s shoulders. Probably some stupid therapy technique. That, or to keep him from getting up and going after Coulson. Clint scowled into his food instead.

“Plenty more fish in the sea,” Stark stood up, slapping him on the back on his way up. “Younger, more attractive, wealthier fish. Do you want my little black book? I’m sure Pepper has a rolodex somewhere.”

Probably closer to an encyclopedia, Clint thought. “Nah, I’m good.” He pushed his tray away from him. There was still half a burger and some fries left, but he didn’t want it and he could see Rogers eyeballing his tray (the guy hated wasting food).

“Suit yourself.” As always, when Stark was gone the whole room seemed a little quieter. It took whole minutes for Clint to work up the nerve to break the silence.

“I’m gonna swing by specs, see if the new glasses are ready.” He shrugged Wilson’s arm off. He waited a beat, expecting some protests, but surprisingly enough they let him go. There was no doubt that they’d ambush him later for more details, but Clint appreciated the little break.

Outside the cafeteria, Coulson was waiting for him. Clint almost jumped when he reached out and caught Clint by the shoulder.

“Clint, I wanted to ask you,” He applied pressure, forcing Clint to face him. “How about we get dinner tomorrow? There’s an Italian place near my home that I think you’ll like.”

Clint swallowed. This was getting weird. He couldn’t get a read on Coulson at all. It was like that Katy Perry song.

“Uh…I think I have a mission.” He did, actually, in Argentina. That was part of why he’d asked Coulson out on a Wednesday, when he normally saved dates for Fridays in case things went better than expected. He wouldn’t be back in New York for at least two weeks.

It wasn’t like Coulson to forget.

“Right, right.” Coulson’s gaze went a little distant, the way it always did lately when he was around Clint. “When you get back, then.”

If Clint was going to be entirely honest…he didn’t really want to. He had experience with bad dates before, and a little distance was never a bad thing. Okay, so yeah, he did still want to try this thing with Coulson, but not if it was going to cost them their friendship.

But he also _missed_ Coulson. It was weird—it was as if the real Coulson had been gone for months, leaving this weird doppleganger that kept tip-toeing around him—but it was better than not being with Coulson at all.

So he agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

**Phil believes in choices.**

**The Captain America comics are all about that. Steve Rogers chooses to get the serum, knowing that it could either make him a hero or kill him. He fights against an enemy that wants to take away everyone’s freedom, make them do only what they’re told. Phil tries to explain this to a lot of people when they make fun of his obsession, with partial success. Still, that’s why he loves the Captain America comics.**

**That’s why he stands up against bullies in school, why he joins the army, why he will say yes when his oldest friend asks him to join SHIELD. He believes that everyone has the right both to make their decisions and to take the consequences, and he uses that belief as a touchstone when he is forced into situations where all available options seem undesirable.**

**That changes after the heptapods. It’s probably the one point in time that he can be certain of, and he divides everything into before and after around that.**

**As it turns out, without uncertainty, without the fear of doing the wrong thing, he really can’t make any choices at all.**

 

* * *

 

 

The mission was cancelled.

Apparently even evil dictators could still die of natural causes. SHIELD would probably still do a tox work-up, make sure it wasn’t some competing evil group that had somehow induced a pulmonary embolism that killed the guy on his way up a flight of stairs. But that meant Clint was scot-free, and now he knew Coulson was free as well.

Not that Clint was particularly looking forward to this date, but if it would clear the air then Clint was all for it.

This time, Coulson picked _him_ up. He hadn’t reacted at all to Clint’s rundown apartment or his casual clothing (bespoke suit abandoned in his closet), had just smiled wordlessly as he let Clint into his car.

Not even a rented car. He was driving Lola. If Clint had thought he was getting mixed signals before, that was nothing compared to this.

The dinner was…familiar. The conversation was so easy, the way it used to be before Phil had started giving him the cold shoulder. He’d even found himself laughing a few times, letting it bubble out with the relief that things were going to be okay

They were going to be okay.

The car ride back was an easy quiet, not the awkward silence he’d imagined but more like the downtime after a mission, when he was on the verge of sleep after riding the adrenaline high of a mission and Coulson tallying up the collateral damage with that gentle chiding tone that he’d heard so many times, mission after mission. When they pulled up to Coulson’s house at last, Clint didn’t want to get out of the car. Didn’t want to end it.

“Thank you for coming to dinner with me, Clint.” Coulson broke the silence first. He was looking through the windshield, gaze on his neighbor’s Bentley’s license plate. Clint watched his mouth move. “I hope you had a good time.”

And back to that weird robotic tone. Clint frowned at it, but Coulson couldn’t see him so he continued on.

“We should do this again sometime—next week, on Wednesday? We can go to that Italian place you like. Best meatball sandwich in the—”

“—city,” Clint finished. “Okay, that’s it. What’s going on?”

“What?” Coulson jerked a little, and finally turned to face Clint. There were more lines along his forehead, down between his eyebrows then Clint remembered.

“You’re acting—I mean, you just—” Clint groaned in frustration and sprawled back in his seat. Why was it so hard to talk sometimes? He could feel Phil waiting, so he gave it a shot.

“I mean, what was that? Things were going good, then suddenly it’s like you’re reading off a ‘perfect first date’ script and I have no idea what’s going through your head. And last week—you act like you’re miserable the whole time, then you want to get dinner again, and—” And great, now he was rambling, and Phil was looking at him like a dying man and that just made Clint want to keep on talking as if he’d eventually find the magic words to describe exactly what was wrong and how to fix it. Finally, Phil looked away, and it was like Clint had come unpinned.

“I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable in any way,” Coulson whispered into his steering wheel. “I…I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“Well, no shit.” Coulson cracked a smile at that. God, this sucked, but it finally felt like Clint was getting somewhere.

“If I’m your friend,” Clint swallowed. “Or if I’m more than your friend—whatever. If you trust me at all. Then…then you should just say it.”

They sat together quietly for long minutes, breathing in sync. Clint waited—he had all the time in the world.

“Do you remember the mission I led in March.” His voice was flat.  “The introduction with the heptapods.”

The mission before this whole thing started. “Uh…vaguely.” Although he’d meant to, Clint had never actually followed up on it. “Aliens, right?”

“Yes. A scientific expedition that was rerouted into our solar system after their engines malfunctioned. Their ship ended up on one of the Pacific islands.”

Huh. “Were they from the same place as the Asgardians?”

“No, but Thor was familiar with them. He served as an intermediary when we approached the ship.”

Imagining Thor as a diplomat always made Clint snigger a little. But Coulson had a deathly serious look on his face, so Clint kept quiet.

“We were able to provide materials that allowed for repairs to be completed. Fortunately their life support systems remained intact throughout the process—the heptapods are not compatible with Earth’s atmosphere. Their ship was fully operational after about a week.”

“They must have been happy about that.”

Coulson paused. Then: “I’m sure that they had faith in our ability to help them. Quite sure.” 

“Well, go SHIELD.” These kinds of missions weren’t uncommon these days, Clint thought. Ever since the Chitauri, it felt like Earth was becoming some kind of intergalactic gas station. The Chitauri had put them on the map.

“Nonetheless, they were grateful for our help. So they gave me a gift.”

Clint frowned at that. “To you?” Not to SHIELD, or Earth?

“The nature of their gift…it made more sense, to give it to one person. And that one person could in turn benefit all of humanity.”

“So no pressure, then,” Clint quipped. Coulson was stiffening up a little. Was that why Coulson had been put on standby afterwards, so that he could figure out how to use the gift? “What did they give you?”

It took a long time for Coulson to answer. “SHIELD R&D is working on it now. We don’t know exactly what it was.” He sighed. “It appears that they don’t perceive time the way that we do. They…” Coulson rubbed his hands over his face, stretching out his wrinkles. “I’m sorry, it’s hard to explain it.”

His voice and hands were trembling. Clint reached out, and Phil stilled.

“They can see the future. That’s how their perception works,” Phil said. “Everything is simultaneous. The past, and the future. And that’s what they gave to me.”

“You…you can predict the future?” Phil’s skin was warm under his grip.

“I _know_ it. Everything. It’s like a memory to me now. Not necessarily in the right order, and I can’t always control it.” His mouth quirked. “The human brain wasn’t meant for something like this.”

He pulled away from Clint. “It’s a lot like daydreaming. When I’m not concentrating on the now, the present, my mind starts playing the other memories on a loop. Sometimes from my childhood, sometimes from the future.” He slowed, swallowed. “A lot of the same memories replay themselves, especially if they’re important to me.”

Clint cannot imagine it. He really can’t. How Phil hadn’t gone crazy by now, he had no idea.

“So…when we’re talking, or just now…do you remember having that conversation?”

“Yes. Well, parts of it—it’s just like any other memory. I don’t always remember the exact wording…”

“But you try to get as close as you can.” Jesus, so Coulson had to experience that awkward conversation twice? Or, infinite times maybe, or—damn, this was confusing.

But by then something much worse had occurred to him. The way Phil had been avoiding him, had clearly been trying to _change_ things. The mixed signals.

“What did you see?” He asked, hesitantly. “What are you so afraid of?”

There’s a long moment of silence as Phil opens his mouth to respond, shuts it, tries again like a gasping fish. Then:

“No. I won’t tell you that.” Phil looked miserable. “I won’t give that burden to you.”

“You…I don’t care.” God, the way his face looked. What the hell was going to happen that was so bad? It was like a horror movie, when you don’t know what’s behind the door but know that you have to go in there anyway. With their line of work, the things they had to do, the risks they took…

Clint reached out, and held Phil’s hand.

 

* * *

**“This is our gift to you.”**

**That is what the heptapods tell him. Phil disagrees.**

**Of course, it is arguable that the word ‘gift’ has a well of connotations, and when one is communicating with an alien species through a slapdash translator assembled by Tony Stark, maybe words shouldn’t be taken at face value. Maybe the Merkah did not mean it in the way that Phil normally thinks of a gift, as something meant to provide happiness without strings attached.**

**There are other possible translations that the translator provides, even if ‘gift’ is an 88% likelihood match according to its algorithm. ‘Offering’ is a possibility, except that an offering implies that Phil can refuse, and he is never given that choice. ‘Tip’ is another, but Phil can hardly believe that these aliens would provide their bizarre perception of time to other species like a five dollar bill to a waiter. ‘Reward’ is plausible, given that the heptapods intended to thank him for helping them.**

**Phil is sure that other people would consider the translator’s choice of word to be correct. There are innumerable benefits to seeing the future, especially when he works for an organization intent on preserving that future. Even if he cannot change the future events, he can at least prepare for them, and prepare SHIELD as well. When Ultron is just a glint in Stark’s eye, when Thanos comes to end the world—they are ready, and Phil’s insight will save millions of lives.**

**But not the one most important to him. He has seen it, over and over. He cannot seem to forget it.**

**It’s impossible to make Clint understand, how desperate Phil is to make sure that the good things happen, that they will fall in love and get married, while dreading the inevitable ending. The way Phil can miss him even when they’re together, the way he can grieve for someone who is still alive in the here and now.**

**Maybe, if he told Clint…but he won’t. He had thought in the beginning that his choices had been taken away from him, but he was wrong. He still has this one left to him.**

 


End file.
